spinning silent
by ChibiCHICKENluver
Summary: o1 – it's downtown in a shady bar that Craig finds sadness comes in the form of a twitchy solemn singer. /Creek/50-universes/


**title:** spinning silent  
**chapter title**: sad eyes, baby  
**chapter rating**: M  
**prompt**: I think you've lost yourself, somewhere  
**summary**: /Creek/50-universes/ o1 – it's downtown in a shady bar that Craig finds sadness comes in the form of a twitchy solemn singer.  
**disclaimer:** I do not own South Park

**notes1**: chapter 1 of a 50-part multiple universe piece revolving around Craig Tucker and Tweek Tweak.  
**notes2**: each chapter will vary in length – some will be continued in other chapters, but there will be _50_ different universes, so don't be surprised if this extends 50 chapters.  
**notes3**: chapter rating _will_ vary.

_._

_._

_I won't try to take the sadness from those eyes that I love, leave it open for someone else to._

.

.

It's Clyde's idea – it's _always_ Clyde's idea.

Craig doesn't know how he gets roped into these situations, but when they're seated in the front of a smoky bar near a stage – scantily clad girls parading around with colorful cocktails – Craig decides this is the last time he's hanging out with the brunette.

At least Token is there to suffer with him. Does that thought make Craig a bad friend?

Probably.

"I'm gonna get lucky tonight," Clyde's overconfident, loud voice booms throughout the bar as the brunette tips back a Fireball. He slams the shot glass back onto the table, and Token rubs his temples.

"Inside voices, Clyde."

Clyde laughs dauntingly, making a jibe at Token's inability to find a nice girl who wasn't a gold-digger, to which Token comes back with a comment about Clyde willing to fuck anything in a skirt.

That's precisely when Craig zones out of the conversation, blue eyes scanning the bar for something more interesting than two bickering idiots – shouldn't be too hard to find.

And it isn't.

He sees him wheeling his piano onto the stage and thinks that he's part of the crew; the guy that does the heavy lifting for the delicate, pouty singer – it wouldn't surprise him; with those muscles rippling under the tight skin of his biceps.

His appearance alone has Craig interested – and this guy was just his type: strong jawed and masculine, with a wiry frame and a shock of unruly blonde hair. Craig watches the way his whole body jerks as he angles the piano to his liking. After a few more seconds, another jerk wracks his body like a wave – from his long torso down to his longer legs.

Craig thinks he wants to take him home, which is a weird thought for Craig to have; he doesn't think he's _ever_ wanted to take someone home – it was too personal. He'd usually settle for a cheap motel or the back of his car. But he was…

Just the way he twitches so indiscreetly-but-not when he leaves the stage and returns with a piano bench makes Craig hard, and he cannot figure out why. How long had it been since he'd gotten his dick wet? Too long, he's sure. And when he pictures that tall, lean body underneath him – gripping his sheets, Craig follows him with his eyes when he leaves the stage to talk to a man on the side – looking for an opportunity to speak to him; proposition him.

But he finds that opportunity would have to wait when, after a few more jerks here and there, the blonde steps back onto the stage and takes a seat on the bench he set up on moments prior.

He adjusts the microphone fastened onto the piano and plays a few notes almost experimentally, before the already dim club dims into darkness, and all that's left is a spotlight on him.

"I'm Tweek," He says – Craig has a hard time believing this – and there's a loud, feminine whistle from somewhere in the back of the bar before he starts to play. His muscles flex with every chord progression, pulling his skin taut and Craig can't help but picture how his arms would look wrapped around him when he presses inside him for the first time.

And then he opens his mouth, voice soft and low and enough to make goosebumps break out on Craig's skin – it's like Craig forgets how to breathe.

_There's something about seeing him die_

_That puts it all into perspective and I_

_Want to stay home…be left alone_

Craig doesn't know how long he watches him so unabashedly – long enough for Clyde and Token to notice, because the dark-skinned boy claps him on the back. "His clothes won't come off no matter how hard you stare at him, Craig."

Craig's attention is forced to his two friends. Token is shaking his head – disapprovingly – while Clyde flags down a waitress.

"How do you even know he's gay?" Clyde asks after catching onto the conversation. "Looks pretty straight to me – dude probably gets chicks on chicks with a voice like that." A pretty blonde waitress comes up to the table with a smile and a tray of shots. Clyde makes an appreciative noise – though whether it's at the waitress or the shots, Craig can't be sure.

"Then again," Clyde continues after the girl leaves the table with a turn on impossibly tall heels and a swing of her hips. Clyde follows the movement intently. "Craig looks straight and he's the biggest fag I know!" He looks back at Craig and grins.

Craig flips him off.

"The gay-dar is never wrong," Token says wisely. "If Craig says he's gay, he's probably gay."

Craig snorts before shifting his gaze back to the blonde. He looks up with a twitch in the middle of an instrumental score, and Craig finds dark eyes staring back into his.

There's a sadness in them Craig wants to fuck out.

He doesn't know when he stops singing – sometime after Craig's 8th drink and Clyde's 4th pass at that waitress; well past Craig's ability to keep track of the time, apparently, because one minute Craig is tearing his eyes away from him to down a final shot for confidence, ready to approach him, and the next minute the blonde – and the piano – is gone.

"Looks like we're both going home alone!" Clyde consoles him as they leave the bar; the brunette is now sporting a bright red hand print on his cheek. "Don't worry dude, I'm sure you'll see him again!"

'Again' is 5 minutes later when Craig finds him smoking outside, down the street from them, while Clyde and Token are fighting about who's driving home. ("It's my car, Clyde, and you're drunk." "You promised _last week_ that I could drive it!") He's alone, looking at the ground, and in the shadows of the streetlight he's under, Craig can see the frown wrapped around his cigarette.

He leaves his friends and walks over, and even though his footsteps are loud – glass and gravel crunching beneath them – the blonde still jumps at his soft, "Hello." His cigarette falls to the ground with his surprised grunt.

He looks terrified, doe-eyes blown wide; darting side to side – pretty – _fuckable_ – mouth parted. Craig holds up his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry," he says. "Tweek, right?" There's a moment where he just looks at Craig, unreadable eyes looking into his – lips tightened into a flat line. Then he gives an almost imperceptible nod.

They don't say much – they don't say anything – as Tweek fishes around in his hoodie pocket for his pack, and draws another cigarette out while pressing his fallen one with his dirty, black TOMS. He offers one to Craig after he lights up.

Craig doesn't accept or decline, just asks, "Will you come home with me." He doesn't mean for it to come out so aggressively. He meant for it to sound like an actual question; he's really trying to not act like the asshole he normally is – and he's failing, apparently.

For a moment it looks like Tweek is going to say no, and Craig can already feel his hand morphing into its signature middle finger-up position, but before he can even lift it, Tweek is shrugging; sucking the end of his cigarette like it's the last one he's ever going to smoke, dropping it, and crushing it when he steps over to brush his lips across Craig's.

"I bottom."

.

.

And that's all Craig remembers before they're in his apartment, crashing through his living-room; tripping over his coffee table. Craig slams Tweek against the wall in his hallway, knocking over a picture of his family in the process. It falls to the floor with the sound of glass shattering, and the body in his arm jerks slightly, but other than that it's ignored. Tweek's shirt joins the shards of glass along with Craig's, and the black-haired boy leaves a trail of saliva down from Tweek's jaw to his nipple.

He bites down and fingernails are dipping into the flesh of his back.

Despite Tweek being several inches taller than him, Craig easily maneuvers his body to his liking; pushing him into his room, lifting him onto his hips so his long legs wrap around Craig's waist, dropping the both of them onto his unmade bed.

They blindly fumble with each other's pants; Craig's are easy enough, once Tweek gets on top of him and past the belt, and when he comes back up from pulling Craig's underwear down, he lets his tongue lead him – slick Craig's cock until Craig is panting and cursing and pushing the blonde underneath him again – but in his partially-intoxicated state Tweek's skinny jeans are beyond Craig's competence level.

Tweek rolls them – again, and Craig is getting a little nauseas – so they're on their sides and he kicks his jeans and underwear the rest of the way off in a fluid movement Craig's alcohol-slowed eyes have trouble comprehending,

There's a squeak and Tweek jumps, the lust in his eyes replaced with terror. "W-what the fuck – ngh – was that?" Craig reaches out with a shaking hand – a shaking that had nothing to do with the alcohol – and wraps it around Tweek's swollen member, eliciting a low whine from the blonde.

"My guinea pig, Stripe." Craig shifts down and cranes his neck, the tip of his tongue just barely reaching the head of Tweek's dick. He gives a distracted moan, and when Craig looks up he can see Tweek's muddy eyes fixated on the cage in the corner of his bedroom. He squeezes his hand harder – enough to snap Tweek's attention back to him. "We can talk about him instead, if you want."

Tweek is flushed on top of him again, biting his lip in a way that has Craig struggling to keep his cool – moaning when Craig fists both of their erections, sliding them together. He bucks his hips out of rhythm with Craig's hand and whimpers in a voice vastly different from the confident one he sang with before, "Fuck me, _please_," and looks down at him with those sad, _sad_ _eyes…_

Craig doesn't think he could say no even if he wanted to.

.

.

"Is your name really Tweek." Craig rubs his eyes with the arm that's thrown over his face – blocking out the sunlight that was pouring into his bedroom from behind the slack shades on his window. It had to be sometime after noon – the sun didn't hit his window like that until around 12. He feels the body beside him shift, hears the tell-tale click of a lighter; then a hum of acknowledgement.

"My name is Tweek Tweak. Last name's spelled e-a, not e-e like my first name."

It takes Craig a moment, but he pauses – moving his arm up to his forehead so he could look at Tweek. "Seriously?"

Tweek gives an indifferent shrug – a twitch, if Craig really looks; taking a drag of his cigarette – exhaling slowly. "I'm not complaining; it makes a good stage name."

Craig wonders what makes a good stage name; if _his_ name makes a good stage name – Craig Tucker – wonders if the man beside him even knows what his name is. "I don't think I ever told you, my name's – "

"Don't," Tweek cuts in with a shake of his head, and for a second those eyes of his narrow. "I don't want to know."

Thirty minutes later, Craig watches Tweek Tweak leave with a small wave and a tiny, crooked smile. He spends the rest of the day picking up picture frames and sweeping up glass, and what should have taken 20 minutes takes 4 hours because he needs to stop every few minutes to calm himself down, because for some reason he can't stop thinking about the way Tweek looked with his blonde hair spread out on his pillows; the way he bit into the skin of the blonde's neck and how he tasted on his tongue.

He collapses on his bed hours later, somehow still tired despite the copious amounts of sleep he got with Tweek wrapped around him. He breathes into his sheets and smells sex and cigarettes and cologne that wasn't his.

Maybe this is why he never took people home.

.

.

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**notes4**: The song Tweek sings is Bad Disease by Lana Del Rey. The Chapter Title and beginning lyrics are from Sad Eyes by Bat For Lashes.  
**notes5**: I have a second chapter for this story-line half-written already, I just don't know what chapter you should expect it by. Stay tuned.  
**notes6**: Feel free to leave prompts/universes you'd like to see in a review!


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